Who Is This Crazy Woman?

Stress is a killer. It makes us do irrational things normal only reserved for the craziest of humans. It makes me drive like an Indy-car racer to the utility office to drop off a payment before I’m forced to have a candlelight dinner with my family. I could have mailed it, calmly placing it in my mailbox and flipping the red flag up, but the payment rode around with me in the car for almost two weeks while I dashed from deadline to deadline. Registration for wrestling, two days late with the infuriating five dollar late fee? Check. Returned the pants that didn’t fit exactly twelve hours before the 90 exchange policy expired? Check. Run to the Scout office to get the badges that were needed for tonight’s presentation? Check.


It’s a wonder that I get anything done. My co-workers are amazed that I always file an extension on my income tax returns. You’d think, since I prepare tax returns for a living, that I would be at least a smidgen better at tracking down my tax forms than my clients. Instead I tend to empty my sock drawer and rifle through my large collection of purses in the eleventh hour praying that I kept that donation receipt that will reduce my tax bill just a little bit more.

But I never look crazier than when I’m so stressed out that I’m bugged by my daughter wanting to hug me. It happened this afternoon as I screamed into the house more than an hour later than normal and proceeded to throw food around the kitchen determined to feed my children before they ate their weight in Ritz Crackers. My daughter padded up to me, a big smile on her face, and told me about how she was the line leader at school today. I patted her head, mumbled something incoherent, and pushed her out of the way so that I could open the cupboard behind her. She was undaunted. She hugged my leg and looked up at me, her big brown eyes watching my every move. “I love you, Mommy.” I sighed and said the most ridiculous thing ever. “Honey, Mommy doesn’t have time to hug you right now.”

What? When did my to-do list trump my kids? No intelligent woman would have let it get to this point, but I did. I blame lack of sleep. Women have more responsibilities than ever before. It may not take days to wash our laundry like our great-grandmother’s but that automatic large-capacity washer didn’t buy us freedom. It’s nine o’clock and bedtime. My younger children are walking around the house crying about things that don’t make any sense. My older son is mocking them in a bad imitation of Will Ferrell. They’re exhausted and I’m exhausted and we all need someone to hug us and put us to bed. Unfortunately and thankfully that’s my job. As it turns out, I do have time to give hugs after all.